162 OF A CERTAIN MAYFLY 



it was latish in the afternoon before the wind veered a 

 little, the rain abated, and the sun shone out. We rode 

 out to explore the forest of Blois, not, like John Evelyn, 

 ' to see if we could meete any wolves, which are here in 

 such numbers that they often come and take children 

 out of the very streetes ; yet will not the Duke, who is 

 soveraigne here, permite them to be destroy'd ' : nor, 

 like Evelyn and his companions, on stout hackneys, 

 but on humble 'bikes,' as English travellers now do 

 most wisely use. The forest is like many another in 

 France pleasing as an example of skilful woodcraft, 

 whereby, owing to the value of firewood, no chip or 

 fallen stick is permitted to rot where it falls disap- 

 pointing by reason of the number and breadth of 

 street-like roads driven through it. But it is all of 

 oak, beloved of nightingales, which sing all day in 

 green twilight of the aisles. 



After paying our respects to the tree called Louis 

 xiv., fondly revered by the Blesois as the largest oak 

 in France, though there are certainly greater ones in 

 Fontainebleau, we rode forward to the western verge of 

 the forest. Here the land falls sharply away into the 

 valley of the Cisson, the road descending in a series of 

 long gradients, engineered, one would say, for the 

 special behoof of ' coasting ' cyclists. A lovely vale it 

 is : flowery meadows too flowery, perhaps, to produce 

 a high quality of hay lined off with rows of rustling 

 aspens, their satiny, eau-de-Nil bark in delicious, 

 subdued contrast to the green, velvet prairie; here a 

 hamlet clustering round a Norman church tower 



